


The Weight of Dreams

by featherbow12



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Football | Soccer, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Uther Pendragon's A+ Parenting (Merlin)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:07:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24717295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/featherbow12/pseuds/featherbow12
Summary: When Merlin signed with Camelot FC, one of the most storied and prestigious football clubs in the world, the newspaper headlines proclaimed that he would save their season.No one expected that he would save Arthur Pendragon, Camelot’s star goalkeeper, instead.
Relationships: Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 71





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know much about football/soccer, or how professional football clubs actually work on a day-to-day basis, so I apologize for any inaccuracies in how the sport is portrayed here. I did my best to do some research, but I welcome constructive feedback on any glaring mistakes.

No one looked at Merlin and thought _striker_. The number nine on his back was bold and stark, the blocky black print impossible to miss against the light blue kit of Essetir FC, but most took one look at him—slim, lanky, some would even say _thin,_ a jumble of knees and elbows that stumbled over thin air more often than not _—_ and dismissed the idea out of hand.

It usually only took a few minutes of watching him _on_ the pitch, instead of off it, to change their minds.

* * *

Everyone looked at Arthur and thought _striker_. He certainly had the build for it—lean, wiry, muscled—but more importantly, he exuded the exact kind of brash, swaggering confidence that clung like a second skin to so many top-flight strikers in the league these days.

More than one manager tried converting him to a striker role in the early days, somehow absolutely unable to let go of _just how brilliant you could be, Pendragon, if you improved your finish_ , before finally noticing the number one he’d been wearing since primary school and deciding to actually play him as a goalkeeper.

Any arguments about a conversion to striker tended to shut down very quickly after that.

* * *

The striker nobody saw coming and the one everybody expected—some would say they were fated to meet.

After his first day at Camelot FC, Merlin honestly couldn’t say what he thought.

* * *

The first man Merlin met at Camelot was Gwaine Greene, who had the greatest hair he’d probably ever seen, and so of course the very first words out of his mouth were an awed, “Your hair!”

It took him all of two seconds to realize that was absolutely not the right way to start his first day at one of the most esteemed football clubs in all of England, but Gwaine was already throwing back his head and laughing (hair flopping like some goddamn shampoo advert model) before he could take it back.

“A man with good taste! I like you already,” Gwaine said with a grin that couldn’t be described as anything other than shit-eating, and Merlin felt something uncoil in his chest. This wasn’t Essetir.

For one thing, nobody at Essetir looked like they could go into modeling if football didn’t pan out.

“I’m Merlin Emrys,” he said, sticking out his hand and hoping the blush he could feel creeping up the back of his neck wasn’t already visible on his face. “The new guy,” he added, knowing it was probably unnecessary. The only thing that travelled faster than gossip in this league was _transfer_ gossip.

“The striker to save Camelot’s season,” Gwaine parroted back like it was a newspaper headline he’d seen too many times, and Merlin hadn’t read anything churned out by the media in over a year, but it wouldn’t have surprised him to find out that was a real article.

The things they came up with, honestly.

If Gwaine noticed his discomfort with the idea of being anybody’s savior, let alone Camelot’s, he didn’t let on. “I’m Gwaine, which I’m sure you’ve already realized because I’m somewhat hard to miss.” Gwaine shrugged, good-natured, and Merlin grinned in lieu of agreeing because _yeah—_ the man really was impossible to mistake. “Welcome to Camelot! We’re all a bit insane, but you’ve got a gleam in your eye that makes me think you’ll fit right in.”

“My best mate tells me I’m touched in the head every day,” Merlin offered after a beat, because really, what else could you say to that?

It seemed to be enough for Gwaine, who tossed his head in another laugh and slung an arm around Merlin’s shoulders. “C’mon then Emrys, let’s introduce you to the team.”

The dressing room was absolutely bustling when they opened the door, but no sooner had he stepped inside than everything instantly fell silent. Merlin knew it was an instinctual thing, noticing that somebody not quite familiar had breached a private space, and didn’t take it personally.

“Erm—hi. I’m Merlin Emrys,” he said after an awkward pause, feeling the familiar heat at the back of his neck that signaled he was about to turn into a tomato.

There was a round of nods and murmured “hello Merlin”s that felt uncomfortably like being introduced at a group therapy session. He opened his mouth to try and find the right words, maybe crack a joke, but all he could think of was _I hear I’m supposed to be your savior or something_ and for all his social ineptness, Merlin was perfectly sure that would be interpreted as arrogance rather than an attempt to break the ice.

“Emrys likes my hair!” Gwaine announced suddenly from beside him, running a hand through his locks with an exaggerated moan.

“Not as much as I do!” somebody catcalled, to which somebody else responded, “Not as much as _Gwaine_ likes his own hair!”, setting off a burst of laughter that broke the off-kilter tension.

Merlin found his face breaking out into a grin despite himself. He’d missed this. It’d been too long, what with how the last few weeks at Essetir had ended, since he’d been in the midst of this kind of friendly dressing room ribbing.

Eyeing an empty spot on the bench, he shouldered his bag onto the floor and took a deep breath to steel his nerves. The first day was always like a post-transfer audition, a chance for the team to push the newbie to see what he was made of, so he knew that today the spotlight would be focused right on him. That wasn’t the worrisome part, not really—there was no room for doubt or fear when the ball was at his feet and the goalposts were within range.

No, the part that worried him was this, now—players coming up to him for one-one-one introductions, where he had to play the awkward dance of being friendly without being an arse-kisser, humble without sounding like someone fishing for compliments, intelligent about football without coming across as a know-it-all. Life on the pitch was so much easier than life off it, that was for sure.

“Mate, I’m Lancelot. Been hearing a lot of chatter, but good to finally meet you in person,” a voice said in front of him, and Merlin pulled himself out of his thoughts.

He shook the proffered hand (grip tight enough? too tight?) and spared a brief thought for whichever modeling company had lost out on all this talent. First Gwaine, now Lancelot—was everybody on this team one headshot away from strutting down a runway? “Merlin Emrys. Erm—nice to meet you, Lancelot.”

“Please, call me Lance.” Lancelot—Lance—had kind eyes and a kind smile, and Merlin felt instantly at ease. “How’s your transition from Essetir been so far?”

And it really wasn’t so bad after that. Lance was as kind as he looked, keeping up a steady stream of conversation all the way through the dressing room and out to the pitch, the type of casual chatter where Merlin could get away with just _mm_ ing and _ahh_ ing at the right times.

A few others came up to him to say hello—Percival, who looked about as intimating as a man could be until he smiled wide enough to show his back teeth and just looked like a large teddy bear; Gwaine for a second time, grinning and finding a way to work his hair into every other sentence, which Lance assured him was normal behavior; Elyan and Kay, with firm handshakes and polite smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes, as though they hadn’t gotten the measure of him yet; and Pellinor, captain’s armband not on his arm but clear in his voice as he delivered what was clearly the standard welcome spiel.

When he and Lance ultimately made it out onto the pitch, the rest of the team had already begun warming up under the sharp eye of Coach Agravaine. Merlin noted several players he hadn’t met yet, though the ones facing him were easy enough to identify from game tape and general knowledge of the Camelot squad. There were still a few too far away to make out clearly, or with their backs to him, but Merlin was sure he’d meet them all at some point over the course of today’s training.

He was, as much as he hated it, the central attraction today, after all.

“Alright, you’ve fifteen more minutes for warm-up!” Coach called out, punctuating the announcement with a quick whistle.

Merlin picked a spot near the sideline and bent down to stretch, letting the tips of his fingers brush the turf. To his surprise, Lance followed, copying the same stretch just a few feet away. “Emrys,” Lance said, voice barely loud enough to be heard. “Do well today. You have to.”

Merlin consciously kept his eyes down on his cleats. “I know. First training and all.”

He did know. First impressions were everything when it came to winning over the dressing room...and, if rumors were to be believed, the Camelot coaching staff as well.

“Agravaine’s been on a ruthless streak lately, and he hates Essetir more than anyone. Damn near had an aneurysm when he heard we signed you.”

“Really?” Merlin vaguely knew of John Agravaine’s career before he became a coach—an esteemed player, albeit unmemorable amidst the legends of the game active at the time—and couldn’t recall any reason for such hatred.

“Yeah, must be a personal thing. He won’t hesitate to bench you the whole season based on one poor practice.”

“Is that supposed to help me?” he snapped back, then regretted it instantly. “Sorry, I only meant—“

Lance didn’t seem to care however, interrupting, “No, you’re right. That wasn’t helpful at all. But maybe this will be—he’ll make you take penalties at the end, today. And no one will tell you, but you miss one and you’re out because you’re bad. You take too long on the run up, you’re out because you’re scared. You put two in the same place, you’re out because you’re predictable.”

“That really didn’t help either,” Merlin complained, moving into a lateral lunge, but his mind was racing, trying to remember every single thing he’d ever observed about Camelot’s primary goalkeeper. He wasn’t worried about his own form—either the spark would be there or it wouldn’t, and he‘d only know when his foot connected with the ball. But depending on the number of penalties he shot, even a halfway decent goalkeeper could probably save one just out of sheer luck. And if he was going up against Pendragon...

Lance only chuckled, like he knew exactly what Merlin wasn’t saying. “Good luck, Emrys. I hope you stick around.” Merlin watched out of the corner of his eye as Lance’s cleats clicked together and started to move away.

Something bubbled up in his chest at the thought that Lance cared enough, after just the five minutes they’d known each other, to warn him about Agravaine at all. “It’s Merlin,” he said before he could stop himself, looking up.

“What?”

“My friends just call me Merlin.”

Lance grinned. “See you out there, Merlin.”

He hadn’t gone by anything other than Emrys at Essetir, but maybe Camelot would be different. Maybe he could find friends here, instead of just teammates, people who could truly come to know him as something more than a name and number on the back of a jersey.

Well. Assuming he made it past penalties, of course.

* * *

He made it by the skin of his teeth.

Pendragon was tall, blond, and arrogant, if the smirk twisted around his lips as he crouched in the goal was anything to go by. “Ready, Emrys? You’ll take six penalties,” he said in the kind of impossibly posh accent Merlin had learned to stay away from since age six.

“Ready,” Merlin called back, placing the ball on the penalty spot.

He was vaguely aware of the entire team watching from the sideline under the pretense of packing up, and of the imposing presence of Agravaine visible out of the corner of his eye, but Merlin tuned all of it out, focusing his attention on the task at hand. Even Pendragon dimmed away, an unnecessary variable. His very first coach had taught him that a penalty was between the player, the ball, and net, and everything else, including the goalkeeper, was just a distraction. After all, it didn’t matter what the keeper did if you placed the penalty right—or horribly wrong.

Merlin looked up at the net, wasting a second unable to escape the incredible _blue_ of Pendragon’s eyes, visible even from this distance, before tearing his gaze away to glance around the goal. He trusted himself to put it anywhere—right corner, top corner, down the middle—but why mess with a good thing?

In. Out. Inhale. Exhale. His mind cleared save for one thought: _bottom left._ He took a step forward, then another, planted, leaned, struck the ball—

And watched it streak all the way into the bottom left corner of the net.

The sideline tittered with interest and maybe even mild approval, but he had eyes only for Pendragon, who hadn’t even moved during the course of the penalty. The man was still standing in the center of the goal, bouncing on the tips of his feet and looking for all the world like the ball hadn’t just flown past him and over the line.

“Too fast for you?” Merlin couldn’t help but tease as Pendragon finally moved and rolled the ball back out to him. He set it down on the penalty spot and lined up for another go.

“You wish!” Pendragon said. “Wanted to start you off easy!”

Merlin grinned. Lance’s warning flashed through his mind— _you put two in the same place, you’re out because you’re predictable_. He liked the bottom left corner, it was always his sweet spot on a day when Essetir desperately needed a goal but his mechanics weren’t quite working, but he had no such qualms today. Everything felt smooth, synced, focused, and there was a joyous freedom running through his veins that made it easy to believe he could place the ball anywhere in the net he wanted.

In. Out. Inhale. Exhale. The thought came: _center._

He stepped, planted, leaned, struck, and watched Pendragon dive to the right as the ball flew straight down the middle and into the back of the net.

_YES._

Exhilaration curled in his belly, and he glanced over at the sideline to find someone to share it with—Lance, who shot a furtive glance around before grinning and flicking a thumbs up his way. _Two down_ , Lance mouthed, and Merlin sobered.

Right. He still had four to go, none of which could be a repeat of what he’d already done. And Pendragon, top-flight keeper that he was, would only improve at figuring out what he was doing.

Pendragon rolled the ball back and centered himself, arms out. Merlin briefly wondered which way he was going to dive this time, before pushing every thought out of his head that wasn’t an image of the ball in the net. Nothing else mattered. If he aimed this correctly, Pendragon wouldn’t have a chance no matter which side he guessed.

In. Out. Inhale. Exhale. _Right post._

The ball bounded off his foot and toward the right goalpost, striking the edge before—after a heart-stopping moment—deflecting into the goal. Pendragon had indeed guessed (predicted? Merlin wasn’t sure) the right side that time, but the arc of the ball was too high for his gloves, just as Merlin had hoped.

He pumped his arm in a sort of abortive half-celebration before remembering that Agravaine wouldn’t let him on the pitch in Camelot red this season unless the next three went in too. Job wasn’t done yet.

Merlin put one in the top left corner. _Four_. Emboldened, he slotted another in the top right. _Five_. Pendragon dove to the correct side both times, but didn’t have the reach to cover the top corners.

No keeper really did, when it came to penalties.

And then, all too soon, it was time for the final penalty. The last thing, if Lance was to be believed, that stood between him and Agravaine being forced to accept an Essetir player onto his squad, personal vendettas and all. There would be no excuse to keep him on the bench, at least not based off this practice.

He waited for the Pendragon to roll the ball out to him, ready to get the last penalty over with. But several seconds passed and Pendragon didn’t move, merely bounced on his toes on the goal line. His eyebrows were raised like a challenge.

Merlin heard it loud and clear. Rolling his eyes, he walked to where the ball was, right next to the goalpost, and hissed low enough that no one on the sideline would be able to hear, “Didn’t know you were such a sore loser.”

Pendragon scoffed. Merlin scowled in return.

As he bent over to nudge the ball out of the net, however, Pendragon simultaneously leaned down as if to tie his shoelaces, and Merlin suddenly felt a voice against his ear. “I’m going left, your left,” came the murmured words, and then Pendragon straightened and moved into position again as though nothing had happened.

Merlin scooped up the ball, not trusting himself to dribble it back safely with the buzzing in his head, and returned to the penalty spot. He settled himself for the kick, looked up, and found Pendragon staring right at him.

There was the faintest smirk on the keeper’s face, but somehow it didn’t seem to reach his eyes, which bored into Merlin with the intensity of a small tsunami.

_I’m going left._

Was it a trap? A mind game meant to throw him off? Merlin glanced at the sideline, where everybody had completely dropped the pretense of putting things away and were watching him unabashedly. He spotted several grins and hopeful faces—Percival, Gwaine, a tall man with curly hair who he assumed was the vice-captain Leon, and Lancelot, who beamed and held up a single finger. _One to go_.

He noticed Agravaine standing off to the side, several meters away from any of the players, scowling, and determination hummed in his veins, hot and eager. He was going to earn the Camelot red with this next kick, Agravaine’s hard-ass tendencies and Pendragon’s tricks be damned.

All things considered, what he’d heard of Pendragon suggested he was the type to say left and dive right, anyways. Actually, Merlin was almost certain of it—the warning had to be a trick, a ploy to trip up his game, and he wasn’t going to fall for it. Gullibility had been beaten out of him by one too many bullies in primary school with accents exactly like Pendragon’s, and he _wasn’t_ going to fall for it.

He was going place the ball exactly where he wanted to place the ball, and that would be that.

In. Out. Inhale. Exhale. _Left post_.

He knew as soon as the ball left his foot that it wasn’t going in. Too much accuracy, not enough power—at mid-height, it wouldn’t be fast enough to escape Pendragon’s reach.

And yet, and yet, somehow, the ball curved left, straight toward Pendragon’s outstretched gloves (he had gone left, as he said he would, and Merlin didn’t know what to make of that at all), _slipped through the gap between them_ , and ended up in the back of the net.

The sideline erupted in cheers.

All Merlin could hear was a dull ringing in his ears.

That shouldn’t have gone in. He knew it, he was absolutely sure of it—no keeper worth their salt would let a ball slip through their gloves like that, and certainly not one of Pendragon’s caliber. It was too rookie of a mistake, too blatant of an error, to be anything other than intentional.

_Pendragon had missed the ball on purpose._

The realization jarred Merlin in a way he was unprepared for, leaving him dizzy and off-balance as the team swarmed around him with hoots and hugs forceful enough to knock him to the ground. He toppled over onto—was that Percival?—with Gwaine piling on top of him, hair falling like a curtain down half of his face while the other half was split in a blinding grin.

“You did it! Mate, you did it!” he could hear Lance yelling somewhere above the cluster of sprawled limbs, and pushed aside all thoughts of Pendragon throwing it to smile, _really_ smile.

He’d made it. He was really going to walk out onto the pitch wearing Camelot red, a nine on his back, and play for the club he’d dreamed of joining since the day he laced up his cleats for the first time.

“Emrys,” called a voice, cold and clinical. Between one breath and the next, everyone was standing upright and dusting themselves off, smiles faded, the only evidence of the prior celebration the grass stains rumpling their shirts. Merlin accepted a hand from—tall, curly hair... _Leon—_ and clambered to his feet.

“Yes Coach?”

Agravaine looked him up and down, not unlike a predator sizing up his prey, and Merlin did his best not to squirm. The ever-present flush was creeping up the back of his neck again, adrenaline at having nailed six penalties the only thing keeping it at bay, but he knew enough about reading people to understand that Agravaine would pounce at the first sign of weakness. It was a far cry from the way Gaius had run things back at Essetir, but part of playing at this level was learning to work with all sorts of personalities.

Whatever it took to win.

“Good work today. I’ll see everyone tomorrow, bright and early.” With that, Agravaine turned on his heel and headed toward the sideline, where the rest of the coaching staff had already bagged up all the equipment for storage. The man paused, just for a second, to add, “Pendragon, _a word_ ,” before striding off the pitch.

No one moved for several seconds. Merlin took the chance to glance over at Pendragon, who was crouched at the goal line with the ball at his feet, expression a carefully crafted mask of neutrality.

It was a media face, the one every player practiced for the inevitable post-defeat interview, the one that spouted _we’ll definitely improve on all aspects of our game_ and _they were just the better side today_ when all you wanted to do was break down screaming in frustration.

Something tugged at Merlin’s heart to see it now, and he tried not to think about what Agravaine wanted with Pendragon. Sure, it was Pendragon’s job to stop penalties, but it was his job to score them, and everyone knew which was easier.

He _definitely_ didn’t think about Pendragon letting the ball through his gloves on purpose.

* * *

Maybe that was why, an hour later, he found himself loitering in the corridor outside Agravaine’s office.

Pendragon had been in there for over half an hour, and while Merlin couldn’t hear their conversation through the thick walls, he doubted what was going on inside was anything good.

He couldn’t explain why he was waiting here, exactly, because it wasn’t that he owed Pendragon anything, even if the man really _had_ missed that last penalty on purpose (which he had, Merlin was sure of it, he just couldn’t quite bring himself to accept that yet). Still, something kept him pacing back and forth in the corridor, glancing at the clock every few seconds and waiting, waiting, waiting...

It took another ten minutes, but finally the door creaked open and out stepped Pendragon. Merlin had so far only seen him in person from twelve yards away, and he couldn’t help but trace that chiseled jawline with his eyes when presented with it up close. The man had almost unfairly aristocratic features.

Then Pendragon pulled the door shut, maybe a little harder than was strictly necessary, and knocked him back into focus.

“Here to see the boss?” Pendragon asked, eyes angling toward the office door before landing on his again.

Merlin gave himself exactly two seconds to think about how damn _blue_ they were, and another second to consider lying, before he shook himself and spoke the truth. “I—no. No, not really.”

Pendragon’s eyebrows lifted. A corner of his lip quirked up with it, shifting his face into an almost-smirk that really should not have been as distracting as it was.

“I—I‘m—I’m here to say that I think you made a really stupid mistake on that last penalty, letting the ball slip through your gloves. I’m pretty sure you should’ve stopped that.” It wasn’t even close to what he was here to say, and certainly not how he wanted to say it, but the words tumbled out before he could stop them.

For a moment, Pendragon just stared at him like nobody—not even Agravaine during the past forty minutes in his office—had ever insulted him quite like that before.

Heat bloomed in Merlin’s cheeks. The silence, combined with that weighty gaze, was too much. “What, can’t take some constructive criticism?” he snapped.

Where was this coming from? Merlin hardly recognized himself. There was just something about that half-smirk, those eyes, that devastating accent, which loosened his tongue and unleashed the snark that usually only came out around Mum and Will.

And then all of a sudden Pendragon was laughing, chest heaving, head thrown back to face the ceiling. He had a great, booming laugh that spread though his whole body, replacing the smirk on his face with something a lot younger, less guarded. “You’re something else, Emrys,” he said, and the words should’ve been a barb ( _you’re a freak, Emrys_ , he could still hear Kanen snickering), but the grin on Pendragon’s face made it sound almost fond.

Like harmless teasing, the kind that didn’t end in bruises or tears or transfers brokered in the middle of the night. God knew he didn’t need any more of that.

“But really—why _are_ you here?” Pendragon asked. He started walking in the direction of the dressing room, and Merlin followed, noticing with a little pang of sympathy that Pendragon was still in his sweaty, stained kit from practice.

“Agravaine give you a hard time in there?” he dodged, because Merlin honestly didn’t know the answer to that question himself.

To his surprise, Pendragon allowed it. “Coach Agro just gets like that sometimes. He doesn’t like to be reminded that I’m not an _actual_ wall, because it means he has to actually invest in improving our defense.”

“People think you’re a wall?”

“The papers certainly do.” There was a lazy sort of confidence in Pendragon’s voice that Merlin almost wished he could emulate himself. It was certainly what those same papers expected of a number nine.

“I don’t read the the papers.”

Pendragon barked out another laugh. “Why does that not surprise me?”

Merlin found himself grinning despite having had no intention of doing so. “I make up my own mind about people, and in any case, I put six past you today. Didn’t see much of a fence, let alone a wall.”

He watched Pendragon closely, willing for him to take the bait. Surely a man of his confidence was more than a little arrogant, surely he would respond to bravado with a little of his own, with a claim that really only _five_ had truly gone past him—

“Well, you‘re just proving my point, aren’t you, Emrys? That our defense will need shoring up if we’re going to make it through the season.”

And it all clicked.

“You’re serious. You’re actually serious.” Merlin stared at Pendragon, and the hint of defiance he saw in his face just confirmed it. “You told me you were going left, you threw that last penalty—and I dunno, maybe even a few in between—just to force Agravaine to improve the defense? Are you insane?”

“I told you which way I was diving for the sixth penalty because you scored the five before that entirely on your own merit, and that’s exactly the type of player Camelot needs. Someone who can fight and scrape and _get it done_ when it matters, despite the odds.” Pendragon’s eyes blazed with a kind of fire that rooted Merlin to the spot. “Of course, you didn’t listen to me and you still went left, so I had to improvise. Even getting five out of six against me, under pressure like that—it’s impressive, but Coach Agro wouldn’t care. You needed all six.”

“You missed it for me?” Being confronted with the reality of it was a heady feeling. Merlin didn’t quite know how to wrestle with the implications of a man as proud as Pendragon humbling himself in such a way for _him_. Little more than a stranger.

“Don’t be daft, Emrys. If anything, I did it for Camelot. Maybe you help our offense, maybe I’ve planted the seed that leads Coach Agro to improve our defense—I don’t know. But I _do_ know nothing good would’ve come out of me stopping that last penalty, so.” Pendragon spread his hands and shrugged, looking away. “I just...missed it.”

With that piercing gaze no longer on him, it suddenly felt a lot easier to take a deep breath. Merlin cast about for a different topic, because the tension in the air was thick enough to taste. “You call him—Agro? Seems...disrespectful, somehow.”

That earned him another laugh. Smaller than before, more controlled, but it still broke the tension and loosened the lines on Pendragon’s face, so Merlin counted it as a win.

“ _Coach_ Agro, mind you, and never to his face. But he’s an aggressive man, and Agravaine is a bit of a mouthful, innit? I think it fits.”

“I think you’re a bit something else too, Pendragon,” he decided, even as they stopped in front of the dressing room door. It was, Merlin realized, the first time he’d said the man’s name.

That much became clear when Pendragon’s whole body stiffened and he turned, one hand still resting on the door handle. It was impossible to miss the way his jaw clenched and unclenched several times as he gathered the right words. “Pendragon is my father. It’s just—Arthur.”

“Arthur.” It sounded nicer, somehow, than Pendragon. Less foreboding, more personal.

The reciprocal words were on the tip of his tongue— _call me Merlin—_ but something held him back.

“Well, welcome to Camelot, Emrys,” Pendragon said after a beat, tone almost clinical, and disappeared behind the door.

 _Call me Merlin_ was still stuck in his throat.

* * *

So, yeah. He made it past penalties by the skin of his teeth, and spent the rest of the day thoroughly confused about Arthur Pendragon.


	2. Chapter 2

His first game in Camelot red ended as a scoreless draw.

It wasn’t exactly a disastrous result, given that they were up against defensive juggernaut Mercia in their famed Mortaeus Stadium (“where offenses come to die!”), but neither was it a ringing endorsement of his potential to score for the club. He’d had three shots on goal—one flew straight into Mercian goalkeeper Bayard’s gloves, another sailed over the crossbar, and the third deflected off a defender before rolling out of bounds.

The man of match went to the Mercian defender who deflected that third shot, which Merlin understood, though he privately felt it seemed more like luck than a demonstration of any sort of skill.

When they returned to the dressing room, however, Agravaine didn’t mention any of that. He looked at Merlin for a solid second and a half, scowling, before proceeding to absolutely _tear_ Gwaine a new one for seventeen minutes.

Merlin knew. For lack of anything better to focus on, he’d counted.

The dressing down was a result of Gwaine’s missed penalty—a rarity for the man considered to be the most consistent penalty taker in Camelot history, but even legends weren’t perfect. It wasn’t a miss so much as an imperfect shot, not enough power on it to slip past Bayard’s outstretched glove.

After the fifth time Agravaine screamed _you cost us two points today_ , red-faced, spit flying from his mouth, Merlin tuned him out to focus on taking stock of the dressing room.

Most of the subs and bench warmers had already cleared out, not wanting to face Agravaine’s wrath until at least the next day’s training, by which time a good night’s sleep would’ve mellowed him out just enough to withstand. The players who were left all had on their media faces, but a quick survey of body language made it abundantly clear what everyone thought of the proceedings.

Gwaine, normally loud and boisterous, stood with his shoulders hunched and his eyes trained somewhere in the distance, clearly trying not to take Agravaine’s scathing words to heart but failing miserably. Lance fiddled with his shoelaces, repeatedly undoing and then redoing them like he needed an excuse to linger. Percival looked the most menacing Merlin had ever seen him, shirtless and glowering at the back of Agravaine’s head with the intensity of a metal-cutting laser. Leon’s jaw was clenched, but he had a placating hand curled around Percival’s shoulder that Merlin figured was probably the only thing holding the defender back from absolutely _charging_ to Gwaine’s defense.

At some point, he really wanted to hear the story of how exactly a shampoo-advert forward and big-as-a-boulder defender became such good friends. Two people probably couldn’t be more opposite than soft-spoken Percival and mouthy, untamed spirit Gwaine.

Pellinor, as captain, couldn’t exactly _show_ dissonance with the manager, but the fact that he was sitting calmly on the far bench instead of presenting a united front with Agravaine spoke volumes by itself. Owain and Kay were having a hushed conversation in the corner, backs turned to the rest of the room, though the way they kept sneaking empathetic glances at Gwaine suggested they knew full well what it felt like on the receiving end of an Agravaine beat down.

Merlin remembered Arthur saying their defense needed to be shored up, and had a sinking feeling Kay and Owain were quite used to being picked apart after matches.

Elyan had headphones in as he packed his bag, though Merlin didn’t miss the way he nearly yanked the zipper straight off when trying to close it just as Agravaine used _you lost us two points_ for a sixth time. Arthur had headphones in, too, but he stiffened and scowled at the right times too often to be listening to anything other than Agravaine.

What Merlin didn’t see, from anyone, was shock that this was happening, and that troubled him most of all. How regular could this type of public shaming be, that no one seemed the least bit surprised?

“—and as a result, Emrys and Decennial will be given an opportunity to claim that spot.”

Hearing his name, Merlin snapped his attention back to Agravaine, and out of the corner of his eye saw Gilli do the same.

Gilli was a bit of an enigma. He didn’t speak much, and Merlin couldn’t really get a read on him beyond that he lived for football and lapped up Agravaine’s limited praise the most eagerly of anyone on the team.

“What?” Gilli asked from next to him, an awed tone in his voice. “Are you serious?”

He sounded like a child who’d been given an extra hour out after curfew, though Merlin figured that was to be expected, given that Gilli wasn’t all that much older than a child at the moment.

“I am, Decennial,” Agravaine replied, but his eyes were fixed on Merlin. “Greene has proven that he is no longer fit to take penalties for Camelot. As our first-choice forwards _,_ you and _Emrys_ ”—Merlin didn’t think he was imagining the way Agravaine’s lip curled in disgust, just a little, like he couldn’t believe a former Essetir player had such a prominent position on his team—“are the most obvious candidates to replace him.”

Merlin’s heart clenched, and he risked a glance over at Gwaine, who looked _devastated_. He’d been the Camelot penalty taker since the very beginning of his career with the club, and to lose that now, like this—

“Will it be me, Coach? I’ve been here longer than Emrys, and I know our system,” Gilli said, rising to his feet. “I won’t let you down, I’m sure of it.”

“I don’t doubt that, Decennial, but I wouldn’t want to be called out as playing favorites.” There was a titter through the dressing room at that, and Merlin made a mental note to ask Lance about it. Clearly there was history there. “You and Emrys will both train penalties this week against Pendragon. Whoever impresses me will be our penalty taker against Western Isles on Saturday.”

It was a lucrative offer. Western Isles were known for a rowdy, rough-and-tumble style of play that involved kicking players as much as it did kicking the ball. Rarely did a game against them not involve plenty of fouls and at least a few opportunities to bang one in from the penalty spot; goal-scoring chances like that were few and far between over the rest of the season.

Maybe that was what prompted Gilli to try his luck. “Coach, I really think I should be the one—”

“Decennial.” Agravaine leveled Gilli with a look so stern it made even Merlin’s toes curl, and Gilli shut his mouth instantly, looking sufficiently chastised. “And Pendragon, about tomorrow—”

“Use the left pitch, far side net, with Monmouth supervising, and give you a full report at COB on their penalty taking,” Arthur recited, sounding almost bored. One of his earbuds was still in and his foot was tapping lightly to the beat of whatever must have been playing from it, but he met Agravaine’s eyes boldly. “I know.”

Elyan smirked at that. Leon stiffened. Kay smothered a laugh. Pellinor frowned.

Merlin had been here two weeks, but he still didn’t feel any closer to understanding the dressing room dynamics.

“See that your report is a detailed one,” Agravaine said curtly, and if Merlin didn’t know better, he’d have said a scowl flashed across Arthur’s face before it settled back into an impassive media-trained mask.

Merlin _definitely_ didn’t feel any closer to understanding Arthur, but he didn’t have time to worry about that, because after a brief, charged pause, Agravaine’s attention turned to him.

“You were the set-piece star at Essetir, weren’t you Emrys? Let’s see if you have what it takes to earn that spot here.”

Merlin looked at him—their manager, their leader some would say, a man who’d spent the last twenty minutes humiliating a fellow player and stripped him of his position, his confidence, his _dignity_ without a care in the world—and saw red. Anger churned hot and fierce in his stomach, superseding the shyness that normally kept an iron grip on his tongue, and before he had time to think about it—

“I don’t think that’s fair.”

Eleven pairs of eyes snapped to his, shocked.

“Excuse me?” Agravaine stepped forward into his space, though the menacing effect was somewhat counteracted by the fact that Merlin was slightly taller than him. A vein pulsed dangerously in the man’s forehead.

Merlin refused to cower. Agravaine reminded him far too much of every twat who’d made his life hell growing up, and he wasn’t the skinny little boy who shied away from a fight anymore. “I don’t think it’s fair, that it’s only Gilli and myself. If anyone should have a chance to earn it, it’s Gwaine. Let him train penalties with us. And if, at the of the week, he’s still the best, then—well, I think we should chalk up what happened today as an uncharacteristic mistake and give him back his job.”

The silence was suffocating.

Merlin’s cheeks tinged pink, then flamed red as Agravaine’s gaze bored into his, but he didn’t look away. His chest tightened until he was hardly breathing, but he _refused_ to look away.

He knew bullies, was the thing. A lifetime of experience had taught him that they preyed on weakness and only grew more emboldened over time when left unchecked. Bullies didn’t stop unless someone stopped them.

“I think that’s a good suggestion,” Pellinor said out of nowhere. Merlin let out a long, shaky breath as Agravaine turned toward the Camelot captain. “Let’s have it be a fair contest between all our forwards. We can even have everyone who might be called up in a penalty shootout take a stab at it, if only as a worthwhile training opportunity.”

And that, Merlin decided, was probably why Pellinor was captain. He spoke calmly, rationally, tone both commanding yet deferential to Agravaine’s authority, and there were nods around the dressing room that suggested the majority opinion was in favor of his proposal.

Sure enough, Agravaine acquiesced, knowing when he was beat. “Very well. I’ll let Monmouth know he’ll be leading full-team penalty drills this week.“ Still grim-faced but no longer looking like he was about to pop a vein, he moved toward the door, then paused in what Merlin was rapidly realizing was the man’s style—make a dramatic exit and deliver a barbed parting shot along the way. “In the future, however, I expect my decisions to be respected as final.”

The moment the door slammed on Agravaine’s retreating form, Gwaine turned to Merlin with an expression of what could only be described as _wonder_. “I owe you big for saving my arse like that, Emrys,” he said seriously.

Merlin shrugged. “Buy me a drink and we’ll call it even?”

“Mate, I’ll buy you a whole _keg_. You’ll need it, too.” Gwaine grinned. “Challenging Agravaine like that? Only Arthur’s ever done it and lived to tell the tale.”

Arthur’s mouth lifted into a familiar half-smirk. “Even I didn’t do it in my first week.” There was something in his eyes, though, something not unlike respect, that kicked Merlin’s heart rate up a notch.

“Well, it was nice knowing you, Emrys!” Elyan called across the room with a put-upon pout.

Lance laughed. Merlin threw a wristband at his face.

* * *

Going to the pub with the lads turned out to be surprisingly—nice, comfortable.

Though it didn’t start that way.

As with anywhere, there were numerous smaller social groups within the Camelot squad, each of which had their own post-match plans, but between Lance’s generally inclusive kindness and Gwaine’s insistence on buying him a drink, Merlin somehow found himself jostling in a cab that evening headed toward The Round Table.

He couldn’t stop bouncing in the seat the whole way there, a sort of unease knotting coils in his stomach. Back at Essetir, they used to simply bury themselves in training after a disappointing result, staying out of the public eye long enough for the backlash to die down and the media attention to dissipate. Any conciliatory alcohol to chase away post-game blues was downed in the privacy of one’s own home, along with plenty of water, a large meal, and anything else that would stave off an incriminating hangover the next morning.

This, a night out fresh off a heart-wrenching draw—this was new, a little bit risky, and Merlin didn’t think he could take a fan’s jeers or even adoration at the moment. More than anything, he wanted to crawl into bed and succumb to a heavy, dreamless sleep, letting the events of the day slip away like dust in the wind.

Still, making friends at a new club was important, and he liked a majority of the group he’d found himself cloistered into—Lance and Gwaine, of course, but also Percival, a gentle giant who clearly cared for his friends, and Leon, mild-mannered and soft-spoken and also the kind of player who stayed late to help pick up the cones littered around the training ground.

He didn’t know what to think about Elyan beyond that the midfielder had an absolutely wicked cross, and in general he did his best to avoid thinking about Arthur Pendragon and his blue, blue eyes.

But four out of six wasn’t bad, so Merlin willed himself to calm down and go with the flow.

They walked into The Round Table, a quaint little establishment that Lance quietly told him on the drive over was owned by a longtime friend of Leon’s, which certainly showed when normally-reserved Leon unreservedly leaned across the counter to pull the bartender into a tight hug.

Something about the warm lighting and dull, steady background chatter set Merlin immediately at ease, and when they were instantly ushered to a secluded table tucked in the far corner, he let the cozy environment start to drain away the tension vibrating in his muscles.

It was quickly becoming clear they hadn’t come here as an accident. There was clearly history with The Round Table, enough that none of the guests shot them strange looks and the bartender greeted not just Leon but all the others by name as well. A round of drinks appeared at the table in under two minutes without anyone having placed an order, and everyone reached for what was clearly their usual.

No, something told him nobody would be nosing around or bothering them here.

Almost of their own accord, his eyes found Arthur, who was sitting opposite him. Arthur looked good out of a football kit, his hair styled up in a coif rather than matted to his forehead with sweat like in training, and Merlin couldn’t help but follow the sharp lines of his navy button-up to where it was popped at the top, revealing just a small swatch of skin.

There was a light tap on his shoulder—he wrenched his eyes away and turned to see the bartender, a young woman with the sweetest smile he’d ever seen.

“Hi! Sorry I didn’t bring you a drink; I wasn’t sure what you wanted. The lads come here all the time and I’d know their orders if you woke me up at 3 am to ask—not that you would, obviously, and not that I’ve tested it but—” The bartender grinned sheepishly, two red splotches appearing in her cheeks, and Merlin felt an inexplicable rush of affection for her. “Sorry, I tend to ramble like that. I’m Gwen.”

She stuck out her hand and Merlin twisted in his seat to shake it, nearly elbowing Gwaine in the process. “I’m Merlin. It’s really good to meet you, Gwen.”

Not for a second did he consider introducing himself as Emrys. There was just something about Gwen that made him feel at ease, at home.

“What’ll you be having then, Merlin?” she asked.

“Well, I—“

“First round’s on me, Gwen, and I promised Emrys here I’d get him something special,” Gwaine interrupted, clapping Merlin on the shoulder. “What’s the most expensive thing you’ve got on tap tonight?”

“Saved your arse, did he?” Gwen chuckled, fond.

“You’ve no idea.” Gwaine gave him another pat, and something warm and fizzy bubbled up inside Merlin’s chest. “You should join us later, Gwen, give us something easy on the eyes to look at ‘round the table. I’m sure Tom could handle the bar for an hour or so.”

Gwen clucked disapprovingly, but the smile on her face didn’t waver. She looked, if anything, like this was standard behavior for Gwaine, and there was a casual ease to the forward’s tone that further suggested this was friendly, almost routine cheek rather than anything untoward.

“Gwennie, don’t listen to him,” Leon piped up from across the table, and he, too, sounded completely unbothered. “Although it _would_ be great if you joined us for a bit.”

“Bit of a busy one today, Leon. Some other time,” Gwen demurred.

There was such a sincerity in both their voices that Merlin didn’t doubt the truth of either statement—that Leon wanted her to join them, and that she really would’ve joined if not for the demands of the job.

He wondered, again, what the relationship was between Gwen and the half of Camelot’s starting XI gathered around the table.

“Just say the word, Guinevere, and I’ll throw Gwaine’s drunk arse in the wrong cab tonight,” Arthur deadpanned beside Leon. “Let him bum around Cornwall a bit, see how he likes it.”

“Oi, you want me to come back in pieces, mate?” Gwaine groused, taking a swig of his drink.

“Nah, then I’d put you in a cab alone with Elyan,” Arthur tossed back, and there was a round of laughs around the table.

It was true that Elyan was currently sporting an absolute stone-face, but Merlin felt distinctly like he was missing something here.

“Gwen’s his sister,” Lance muttered out of the corner of his mouth, ever the gracious one, and then it all made sense. If Merlin had a sister, he wouldn’t let her within ten yards of Gwaine Greene.

“If I thought for a second that Gwen needed any help, I’d’ve shaved off your hair a long time ago, Gwaine. But she’s more than a match for you, eh?” Elyan flashed his sister a smile.

Gwaine only laughed, taking another sip.

Gwen ducked her head, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear with an embarrassed sort of smile. “That’s enough, boys. Merlin—one horrendously expensive drink coming right up.” She picked her way through the crowd of people and back to the bar with the practiced familiarity of an expert.

“You didn’t have to do that, Gwaine,” Merlin said, trying to imagine how expensive something would have to be for it to be termed _horrendous_ , and didn’t like the odds. “You don’t owe me or anything, I just did what anyone would’ve done—nothing special.”

“I didn’t see anyone else doing it, did I?” Gwaine replied promptly. “Besides, what are our wages for, if not to blow on something stupid once in a while?”

Percival punctuated that response with an emphatic head movement somewhere between a nod and a shake, and—well. Merlin obediently sipped on something amber and ridiculously expensive, letting the flow of the conversation lull him into a pleasant haze, and that was that.

* * *

“So, Emrys, what’s your story?”

Merlin glanced up from his drink—just water, now, same as everyone was doing, because going to tomorrow’s training hungover would be like begging for a death sentence—and looked at Elyan, unsure of how to respond.

“My story?” he stalled, casting around for something, _anything_ that would be appropriate to share one week in, sitting half-tipsy around a table at the pub. Most everything he had to offer was too personal or too depressing, neither of which made for good small talk.

“Yeah, you were a rising star at Essetir. They would’ve built the team around you over the next few years, and you don’t strike me as the kind of bloke who’d leave all that behind for a payday.”

That, at least, was true. He’d actually taken a sizable wage cut to transfer out of Essetir to Camelot, unable to wait even a second longer for Will to negotiate with the movers and shakers at various clubs. Most agents might’ve pushed back and claimed it looked desperate to accept lower wages just to push forth a transfer, but that was where it paid for your agent to also be your best friend. Will understood his desperation to leave with the genuine empathy of someone who knew every detail of what fueled it.

He was the only one, after all, to whom Merlin had told the full story.

And right now was certainly not the time, place, or social group for a repeat performance.

But when he opened his mouth to try and find the words to deflect, absolutely nothing came out. “I—it was a good opportunity, and I took it,” he said weakly, not needing to look around to know that nobody would be satisfied with that answer. Bland, inoffensive statements were meant for the press, not for the teammates he’d soon be spending more time with than any member of his family.

“C’mon, mate, none of that canned and rehearsed stuff. You gotta give us something.”

As socially inept as Merlin could sometimes be, he understood well the give-and-take of developing new friendships. Trust was earned, and it started with honesty, but this, his departure from Essetir—that was off-limits, a time in his life he wanted to keep sealed away in the furthest reaches of his mind. He couldn’t offer them that.

“I—”

Maybe his thoughts had played out on his face or maybe it was more pity than anything else, but suddenly Arthur cut in.

“Elyan, enough,” he said, voice low and hard. “Everyone deserves their privacy.” His eyes were _bleeding_ with something far too heavy for the previously jovial mood of the evening.

Merlin could only watch, askance.

Everyone around the table shifted uncomfortably except Arthur, who sat stony and rigid until Leon nudged him lightly with an elbow, murmuring something too low for Merlin to make out. Arthur deflated, then, biting his lip and rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. “That wasn’t—I didn’t mean to snap,” he said finally, and it sounded about as close to an apology as something that didn’t include the actual words could be.

“Let’s do quick-fire,” Lance piped up as the silence hung heavy in the air. A round of nods followed his suggestion, and Merlin relaxed fractionally. By their very definition, quick-fire questions couldn’t be too elaborate; hopefully old wounds would be left undisturbed.

Lance started. “Full name.”

“Merlin Balinor Emrys.”

“ _Balinor_?”

“Careful, Gwaine, that’s my dad’s name.”

Gwaine held up his hands in surrender, though he clearly couldn’t stop himself from muttering whatever cheeky retort he’d thought of under his breath. Merlin might’ve cared more if not for the fact that Gwaine’s insults were probably a lot less than what Balinor Emrys deserved.

The questions continued around the table.

“Favorite footballer.”

“Bruta.”

“Camelot legend, mate!” Elyan whistled, appreciative. “Excellent choice.” Any lingering tension melted away after that.

Leon took his time, draining his glass of water first, before posing a question. “Biggest weakness on the pitch.”

“I’m very instinctive when I play. I tend to do what I feel in the moment, so I’m not really the best at sticking to plans.”

“Well, you can’t be more impulsive than G here.”

“Shut it, Perce, don’t be a twat.”

Arthur’s turn. His eyes bored steadily into Merlin’s as he said, “One word to describe yourself.”

Merlin knew how it would sound, given his earlier refusal to divulge anything about leaving Essetir, but couldn’t think of a more fitting word. “Honest.”

In the periphery, he could see Elyan’s eyebrows lift in light surprise, but otherwise nobody reacted.

“Non-football hobbies.”

Percival looked genuinely interested in the answer, so Merlin tried to wrack his brain for something more than _football is pretty much all I know_. “Reading,” he settled on finally, because standing on the pitch with the roar of twenty thousand fans at your back was still the greatest feeling in the world, but curling up on a rainy evening with a book was a distant second.

Distant, but still second.

Over to Gwaine, who was sporting a grin that Merlin knew, even just in the one week he’d been here, to be wary of. “Who around the table would you kiss?”

His heart nearly stopped in his chest.

“Gwaine!” Lancelot exclaimed next to him, but Merlin heard it like it was filtered through a screen, far away and echoing. A different room, a different reality.

He couldn’t know. There was no way. Was there? He couldn’t know.

“I—I wouldn’t—” Merlin could hardly draw breath, choking on air like a hand was tightening around his throat.

“Let me stop you right there.” Gwaine held up a finger, and Merlin’s mouth snapped shut.

He couldn’t know. He _couldn’t_.

“I’m gay.” Gwaine’s voice was casual, the-weather-is-beautiful levels of casual, but even in the dim light of the pub, his eyes gleamed with an intensity that was unmistakable.

Oh.

“If you have a problem with that, the door is right over there.” Gwaine jabbed a finger in the direction of the exit. “I hope it hits you on your way out.”

A quick glance revealed that nobody looked shocked or disgusted at Gwaine’s words—clearly, all of them knew, and apparently, none of them thought anything of it.

Could it be?

Merlin swallowed, the vice grip on his chest loosening just a fraction, and tried not to think about what that might mean. “No problem,” he whispered, unable to find more of his voice.

As if.

“Good. So if you’re worried about appearing gay, don’t be. Now, who around the table would you kiss?”

It hit him, finally, that this was meant as no more than a slightly strange icebreaker, and the only thing that would give him away was his own reaction. So Merlin forced his lips to twist into a smile and hoped the light was dim enough to hide the way they wobbled.

Who _would_ he kiss?

His eyes found Arthur’s without even thinking about it. Blue eyes gleamed back at him, twinkling with amusement, and he looked away.

“Absolutely none of you. Maybe Agravaine, though. Man could use some lightening up,” he settled on, and could’ve sighed in relief when the table exploded into laughter.

Gwaine slapped him on the back. “Great answer, mate.”

Merlin grinned despite himself, a weight lifting off his shoulders. “Anyone wanna follow that question?” he asked, confidence surging.

His secret was safe.

Although a new question lingered, now.

Did it have to stay a secret?

* * *

The thing about spending much of the week taking penalties against Arthur was that he was spending much of the week taking penalties against _Arthur_. Camelot’s reserve keepers—a tall, ginger man named Geraint and a short, stocky, powerful jumper named Oliver—were getting in some practice of their own, but primarily against the midfielders and defenders.

Gwaine, Gilli, and Merlin spent the week facing off against Arthur. It was different, however, without an audience like they’d had his first day.

For one thing, there was a lot more smiling. And laughing. And joking.

Gilli was characteristically quiet as usual, but Gwaine and Arthur clearly knew each other well, and Merlin was entertained with an endless sequence of ribbing and jibes and banter that started from the moment the two of them left the dressing room and didn’t finish until they set foot in it again.

He didn’t miss the way nobody tried to rib or jibe or banter within earshot of Agravaine. Or the way Gwaine was always the one to start the joking and never the other way around.

So it wasn’t long before Merlin found himself, almost without realizing, reading deeper.

Gwaine was as carefree with his penalties as he was with his laughter, not afraid to launch a few over the crossbar just for the satisfaction of yelling, “Better jump higher, Arthur!” and chucking in delight. Or so it seemed. He smiled quick, laughed easy, and brushed off a missed shot with a _what can you do_ shrug and mumbled curse.

Arthur was the opposite.

His every smile and laugh materialized slowly, as though it had been coaxed out of him without his knowledge. In the—admittedly rare—moments when Gwaine wasn’t cracking jokes, Arthur looked drawn and focused, clearly a million miles away until just a few seconds before the kick, at which point he seemed to snap to attention.

Merlin didn’t know what to make of it, other than that he was spending far too much time observing Arthur Pendragon and his ridiculous blue eyes.

“Emrys, last one for the day!” Monmouth called.

Monmouth was very much a hands-off coach, preferring to crouch several paces away from the goal and simply watch them shoot. Occasionally, he would pipe up with a critique of a particular maneuver or decision—“Don’t try to catch those, Arthur, just punch them away,” or “Look at where he’s standing, Gilli. He’s showing you left”—but otherwise, he was content to just observe. Sometimes he’d even wander off to go see how the other keepers and players were getting on, though he always made sure an assistant was there to keep track of who was scoring what.

Merlin didn’t mind. He never took well to following orders anyways.

Now, they’d reached the end of the day, and the week. This was it. The final one.

“You’re looking tired, Arthur!” Gwaine taunted from behind him, though the smile was clear in his voice. “C’mon, Emrys, slot it past the man.”

Arthur tossed a scowled in Gwaine’s direction.

Merlin let out a long breath, and lined up his shot. He wanted to end on a high.

In. Out. Inhale. Exhale. No target immediately jumped out at him, so he simply stepped, planted, leaned, and struck, letting the ball bound off his foot and do its thing.

Arthur swatted it behind the goal with an outstretched glove.

Somewhere behind him, Gwaine cheered. “Mate, what a save!”

“Good work, Arthur.” Monmouth’s bushy eyebrows crinkled in approval.

And Merlin’s voice seemed to have a mind of its own, because he, too, found himself saying, “Nice one, Arthur,” as they walked off the pitch.

But there was that smile again, slow and startled, like Arthur hardly knew where it was coming from, and it was worth it. Those blue eyes danced when he smiled, really, truly smiled instead of just half-smirked, and it was even more blinding up close.

Merlin could feel the heat rising at the back of his neck, but really didn’t think it was his fault that he couldn’t look away.

Arthur broke first, clearing his throat and turning away when Gilli cut in, “So, who do you think it’s gonna be?”

Right. The job.

“Reckon it’ll be Emrys, mate. He had the best percentage out of us three, I’d say,” Gwaine offered.

“He’s only been here a week, and he’ll be first-choice penalty taker? How’s that fair?”

“Oi, I’m right here, Gilli,” Merlin snapped, but there was no bite to it.

One couldn’t help but feel for the kid. He clearly wanted the job, clearly wanted to prove his worth, but all that pressure just seemed to get into his head every time he stood in front of the spot.

Gaius had taught Merlin that taking a penalty was more about the mental game than the physical—being able to stay focused on the task ahead, bear the weight of the moment, and above all, deal with the consequences no matter whether the ball went in or not. Gilli had the skill, power, and accuracy to slot the ball home, there was no doubt about it, but he lacked the discipline, and the maturity, to handle the mind games.

“If you spent less time trying to throw me off and more time getting your shots right, your percentage would’ve been up there too, G,” Arthur said. He sounded too irritated to just be teasing.

“Ahh, but messing with you is more fun, innit?”

“Nothing against Emrys”—Arthur glanced at him briefly—“but I don’t want you losing the starting role because you were screwing around, Gwaine.”

“Maybe he doesn’t take it seriously enou—” Gilli shut his mouth with a nearly audible _click_ when Arthur leveled him with an absolutely _withering_ look. “Sorry.”

“I’m gonna have to walk into Coach Agro’s office today and give him a status update. He’ll ask me for my recommendation,” Arthur said as Gilli opened the dressing room door and scampered inside.

Gwaine pushed it closed as soon as Gilli was through and stood in front of it, blocking their way. “I know that.”

“Do you also know what I’m gonna say, then?” Arthur wasn’t shouting yet, but it seemed like a close thing.

“You’ll say, as you should, that Emrys performed better.”

“Gwaine—”

“ _Arthur_ , that’s what you’re going to say.”

Merlin could only watch, like a spectator at a tennis match, as the conversation ratcheted back and forth.

“What is this, the start of your resignation?” Arthur asked. “Are you throwing it on purpose? Emrys stuck his neck out to even get you a chance at earning back—”

“I know!” Gwaine glanced around, sheepish, and lowered his voice. “I know. Dammit, Arthur, I know. I just—it hasn’t been clicking this week at all. Ever since the last match I—Western Isle’s is one day away, and I can’t—” Gwaine broke off, shaking his head, carefree demeanor melting away entirely into something ragged and frenetic. “I can’t do it. Can’t fu—”

Merlin looked away when Arthur cut Gwaine off and tugged him into a hug. It felt too much like intruding on a private moment, something he wasn’t meant to see, though Merlin couldn’t stop himself from overhearing Arthur’s murmured, “It’s okay, G.”

The tunnel was luckily empty, everyone either in the dressing room already or having gone home, and the moment stretched on for nearly half a minute.

They eventually pulled away with sharp nods, and Gwaine disappeared into the dressing room seconds later.

Arthur’s eyes then turned to his, sharp and wary.

“I don’t wanna take it from him,” Merlin started, and knew it was the right thing to say when Arthur relaxed, eyes softening. “I’m serious. Agravaine got into Gwaine’s head and threw off his game, that’s all.”

Arthur nodded. “I know. I’ve known all week. G loves a good joke, but he’s professional as hell when it comes to training and doing the work. Knows they’d take any excuse to kick him to the curb.” The worry etched into Arthur’s face suggested that this, losing penalty duties, could be exactly that excuse.

Merlin thought of Gwaine’s eyes boring intently into his as he said _I’m gay_ , and understood. This wasn’t a welcoming industry by any standards.

Of all people, Merlin would know.

“What are you going to do?” Merlin asked. What could Arthur do? Monmouth had seen all their penalty sessions for the week and kept track of exactly who had scored how many. Merlin didn’t know the exact numbers, but he knew whatever they said would be damning to Gwaine.

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” Arthur slapped the wall with a frustrated groan before striding down the hallway toward Agravaine’s office.

Merlin watched him go, stomach twisting into knots. He might’ve been elated at the situation—becoming first-choice penalty taker for Camelot was no small thing, and that six-year-old who waddled onto a football pitch for the first time would never have believed it—if it didn’t make him feel so sick.


End file.
